


Stone-Cold Fox

by sakuragi (bible)



Category: Slam Dunk
Genre: Confessions, Crushes, First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:27:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29071764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bible/pseuds/sakuragi
Summary: “I didn’t say I want Kiyota. I said he’s my type.”“You’re weird, Rukawa! Who would want that kinda guy?”“What, an arrogant bastard who can’t keep his mouth shut? The kind of guy who embarrasses his team?”
Relationships: Rukawa Kaede/Sakuragi Hanamichi
Comments: 8
Kudos: 28





	Stone-Cold Fox

“Good morning, bastard!”

It isn’t like Rukawa wasn’t expecting that signature loud, raspy bark. He just wasn’t expecting to be hit in the face with a pillow as soon as he turns his head. The thud of it makes him stagger back, more in shock than in the pure physical power of the throw, his headphone slipping out of one ear as he grabs it in his hands. He glares up at the open window on the second floor of the physical therapy clinic, where Sakuragi is hanging half-way out, his arms crossed smugly.

“Ha-HAH!” he shouts, extending a monkeyish arm and pointing at him, “Surprise attack!”

Rukawa huffs and drops the pillow into the sand beneath him.

“ _WHAT_ —Rukawa! _What do you think you’re doing_?!”

Rukawa tilts his head challengingly, his eyes narrowing into dark slits, and shoves his hands in the pockets of his track pants. His sweat is slicking his bangs to his forehead, but the sea breeze offers a pleasant respite from the heat. No wonder the clinic’s on the sea. It’s a nice place to recover. The smattering of broken shells glimmer prettily along the shore, the seawater laps at the sand and dampens in the low tide, the sun is pale and bright overhead, making the waves shine.

“I sleep on that, you bastard!”

“If I hadn’t caught it, it would have fallen in the sand anyway, moron.”

Sakuragi huffs and stamps his foot.

“I’m coming down there!”

Rukawa scoffs but waits firmly in place as Sakuragi slams the window shut, presses his face flat against the glass and exhales through flared nostrils, fogging the pane, and disappears. He can hear the thud of the oaf’s footsteps descending as he takes the stairs, and the door swings open, and he appears in front of him shortly thereafter.

Rukawa hands him his sandy pillow and Sakuragi snatches it from his grip with a growl, before running back inside. When he’s returned, he has replaced the pillow in his grasp with a basketball.

Rukawa raises an eyebrow, his pallid face unchanging in expression. But his curiosity is peaked.

“It’s finally time, Rukawa!” Sakuragi hisses in a stage whisper, leaning forward to shove his face into Rukawa’s vicinity. Rukawa smells of salty perspiration from his run, so Sakuragi steps back with a scrunched nose. “I’m finally well enough to play.”

“…Your nurse said so?”

“Yes, yes! See, I’ve been a _very_ good boy. I haven’t snuck out of rehabilitation once. I do my rolling regimens and I moisturize my skin and I don’t have any immobility ulcers. I finished my resistance training, and now I’m probably, say… a hundred times stronger than you? Before I was just, hmm… Fifty times…”

“But your spine… You can jump without injuring it?”

Sakuragi puts his hands on his hips and demonstrates bending back, arching his spine, before jumping up and landing on his Air Jordans—the same ones from their last game together.

“It’s different on concrete than on sand.”

“Eh! What, do you _care_ about me or something, Rukawa?”

“Don’t get it twisted,” Rukawa says, smacking the ball from his hip in a rapid-fire motion, before setting it on his fingertip and hitting it. It spins beautifully, balanced on his hand, “I just don’t want you to break your body beyond repair before we’re juniors.”

Sakuragi’s face breaks into a grin, his huge, white maw spreading in his face, and he yells, proudly, “That’s right! You _need_ me! Need this tensai for the team!”

“With the new freshmen coming in,” Rukawa murmurs, “We don’t know what to expect with the quality of our team. We can’t afford to lose any of our solid members.”

“Well, the nurse told me that I can play for ten minutes a day. I was waiting for you to come by,” he admits, looking a little sullen. He’s worried, and so is Rukawa. He learned so much in the span of four months, but he’s been in recovery for about three months, now—school is starting again, soon, and although he hasn’t necessarily been ‘slacking,’ he hopes that Sakuragi hasn’t lost anything that he’s learned.

Better to polish up the skills now than never, though. Beats jogging alone.

“Is there a court nearby?” Rukawa asks, shoving his Walkman into his pocket.

*

Inside the chain-link court, it’s only the two of them.

The familiarity is natural. Their sneakers don’t squeak on a polished court, but the slap against concrete is just as welcome. The thud of the rubber ball against the backboard, the swish of the net, Sakuragi’s screams of frustration whenever Rukawa dunks, makes jump shots, makes perfect threes. There’s no way Rukawa’s going easy on him just because he’s in recovery. That’d only enrage Sakuragi further—the guy likes it whenever someone has to extend all their effort against him.

Fluffy seaside clouds bunch up along the sky, blocking out the sun.

“You bastard!” Sakuragi yells, running up and slapping the ball from his hands whenever Rukawa attempts another jump shot. Sakuragi lands on both feet and grits his teeth. For a moment, Rukawa feels his heart jump in empathy at the rictus on his face, assuming the pain has shot back up his spine, but whenever Sakuragi makes a clean shot into the net and boasts, he realizes it wasn’t a cringe of pain, but a grimace of aggression. Like a wild animal showing his teeth.

“See that?! I haven’t played in months, and I’m still better than you!”

“Idiot, you’ve made _two_ points.”

“Ah-ha-ha-ha! No injury can break _TENSAI SAKURAGI_!”

Rukawa—honest to god— _smiles_. He can feel the upturn of his lips, the apples of his cheeks tightening against the thin skin of his face.

Sakuragi jumps, frightened, dropping the ball. His eyes widen as it rolls along the concrete and comes to a stop against the dirty sole of Rukawa’s sneaker.

“What the—what is _that_?”

“What?”

“What are you doing with your _face_?!” Sakuragi walks forward and juts a finger into his cheek, accusatory, stunned.

“What do you mean?” Rukawa’s lips drop back into their perpetual flat line.

“I saw you—I saw you smiling! I saw it, I saw it! What the shit?”

Rukawa rolls his eyes.

“Idiot…”

“Gah-haha! Rukawa found his central nervous system!” Sakuragi barks, and places both hands on his cheeks, thumbs pressing on either side of his mouth, tugging it back up into a grin. The clouds get lower in the sky, darker, swollen grey with an oncoming drizzle.

Rukawa slaps his hand away, “Knock it off.”

Sakuragi coos mockingly and then drops his hands, scooping the ball from the ground once more and palming it. He shadows his eyes with his palm and peers up at the oncoming rain. Rukawa takes a moment to study the column of his neck, the jut of his Adam’s apple. He swallows, his mouth feeling dry.

“It’s gonna rain. What a bummer… Looks like you bring negativity wherever you go, huh?”

“Seems so.”

Sakuragi sighs and looks at the net longingly.

“One dunk before we go back.”

Rukawa steps back, hands on his hips. He knows better than to _show_ any care for the state of Sakuragi’s back, but he is worried. Still, Sakuragi needs to be able to dunk if he’s going to rejoin Shohoku once school begins.

Sakuragi stands at the three-point line, then takes two long strides, jumps, and slams the ball through the hoop. Rukawa’s impressed he didn’t hit his face against the backboard again, and watches with a neutral expression as Sakuragi hangs from the hoop by those long arms, the pole creaking, before he lets himself go and hits the ground easily. He doesn’t wince, but his gait is stiffer.

And yet, he hasn’t lost his touch.

Sakuragi knows it too, if his laugh of pride is anything to go by.

“Are you sure that you haven’t been practicing?”

“This is pure, raw talent. I’m born with it! It’s in my blood! Couldn’t lose it if I _tried_.”

Rukawa doesn’t respond but looks skyward when the first fat droplet of rain hits his shoulder. Sakuragi seems to feel it too, extending a palm and watching the rainfall dissipate on his flesh. He hums thoughtfully.

“I should go,” Rukawa says, and begins walking towards the open gate of the public court. The wind is cooling down, and he supposes a run in the rain isn’t the worst.

“Eh? W—wait!”

Rukawa cocks a brow, stopping.

“…Hn…” Sakuragi grits his teeth, looking down at his knees and struggling for a moment.

“What?”

“Can you… come back to the clinic with me?”

*

In Sakuragi’s room, they sit opposite of each other, Rukawa on his bed, Sakuragi on the floor. He’s laying on a mat with a round pillow beneath his tailbone, his legs stretched and propped up against the wall. In his hand is a letter from Akagi. He slides it atop his desk.

God, he’s been lonely.

“He hasn’t visited me, though,” Sakuragi mumbles, frowning, “That dumb gorilla…”

“He’s probably busy at the university.”

“Miyagi visited once. I can’t believe he’s captain. Who let _that_ happen? Why not me?”

“Why not _me_?”

“Well, _that’s_ obvious. Captains can’t be mute.”

“They can’t be crippled, either.”

“My back will get better!”

“I was talking about your brain.”

Another pillow—this time, the firm, round one—goes flying at Rukawa’s head. He doesn’t catch this one, either.

“Bastard! I’m a _TEN_ -SAI! _Tensai_!”

“Tch…” Rukawa sets the pillow out of Sakuragi’s reach and rubs at his nose.

Sakuragi sits up on his elbows and snarls, watching as Rukawa gets up and walks to the vanity. He picks up his comb, inspecting his damp hair in the mirror. The walk from the court to the clinic had resulted not in a drizzle, but in a very rapidly developing downpour. They had to run inside and shake off their sneakers on the veranda, and now he’s trapped. With this idiot. The storm outside makes the air heavy, but it’s dry and warm in here—these August showers are always so oppressive. Rukawa had changed from his sweatsuit which was damp and clung to his skin and into Sakuragi’s Shohoku sweatpants and one of his t-shirts. It felt odd, intimate, pulling them on over his limbs. They were the same size, but the 10 printed on the fabric over his thigh felt foreign. Like a promise ring, wearing your boyfriend’s varsity jacket. The nurse had seen him blushing.

Raking the teeth of the comb through his hair which has gotten fluffy in the humidity, he listens to Sakuragi snicker.

“What’s so funny?”

“I have lice.”

Rukawa drops the comb immediately and turns around, eyes widened.

Sakuragi’s laugh betrays any attempt at convincing him of the truth of the sentiment, but Rukawa groans, nonetheless, and doesn’t dare touch the comb again.

“Idiot! My head is shaved, how am I gonna have lice?! You’re the stupid one, not me! _Dou ahou_!”

“No wonder Akagi hasn’t visited you.”

As soon as he says it, he regrets it. Sakuragi’s face drops from his grin and he looks downward at the floorboards. But Rukawa doesn’t have it in him to apologize. He drifts wordlessly to sit beside him on the mat, pulling his knees to his chest.

“…Neither has Haruko.”

“Hm… His sister, right?”

Sakuragi glares at him, “Yes. She’s crazy about you, Rukawa—and you don’t even know who she is!”

“It isn’t like we’ve spoken. How would I know?”

“Yeah, yeah. You’ve got too many fans, can’t keep track of ‘em all! Well, you’re lucky. I’ve been rejected fifty times.”

Rukawa hums, non-committal.

“That’s because I don’t care for women. And you don’t care about anything except for the fact they’re women.”

“Well, I used to. I just wanted a girlfriend. Didn’t matter who—as long as she was a girl. Haruko-chan is different, though,” he says, his eyes glazing over. He props his chin on his knees, “She’s going to be co-manager with Aya-chan when we’re back in school, so I can see her all the time. But I think—I think she still loves you.”

Rukawa looks away.

“She isn’t my type.”

Sakuragi’s confounded. It’s hard for him to process that Haruko-chan wouldn’t be someone’s type. She’s so lovely, and cute, and friendly. But then again, Rukawa’s dead inside. It isn’t like he’d be familiar with those concepts.

“Oh, yeah? Then what’s your type?”

“…Kiyota’s not bad.”

Sakuragi wracks his brain, trying to remember who that is. Kiyota—he can’t remember a girl at his school with that surname. He scratches his chin. Maybe one of Rukawa’s fangirls from another school?

“I don’t think I know her,” he says, looking at the ceiling as if she’ll materialize there.

“…Kiyota’s not a girl.”

Sakuragi’s head whips to the side.

“W-wait! Kiyota Nobunaga?! From _Kainan_?”

Rukawa’s heart pounds in his chest. Did he just come out? To _this_ fool? There’s no way he’ll be able to keep it a secret—it’s over for him. Sakuragi’s going to desecrate his reputation, going to have his little squad of goons tear him to shreds over it. His desk will be covered in homophobic slurs, rival teams will mock him. People will leave the locker room when he enters—

“Of all the men in the world, you like that wild monkey?!”

Rukawa blinks at the flippant dismissal of his taste in gender. Is Sakuragi more upset about Kiyota than his homosexuality? “…You don’t… care that I like men?”

“Huh? No, why would I care? That just means that Haruko’s mine!”

Rukawa feels a strange heat in his stomach. Is it jealousy?

“I just—why _Kiyota_? He’s so annoying and loud and arrogant… He’s—”

“That’s what I like,” Rukawa mumbles, keeping his eyes on the 10 on his pants. He wonders if his ears are as red as they feel.

“Well, you’ve got no chance! Even if Kiyota likes guys, too, have you seen Maki? That old man’s chiseled out of stone! He’s a surfer, you know? That’s why he’s so tan. He doesn’t want this zombie right here, Kiyota would want Maki,” Sakuragi says, grabbing Rukawa by the cheek and pinching hard on the skin.

“I didn’t say I _want_ Kiyota. I said he’s my type.”

“You’re weird, Rukawa! Who would want that kinda guy?”

“What, an arrogant bastard who can’t keep his mouth shut? The kind of guy who embarrasses his team?”

Sakuragi narrows his eyes, “You talk so much smack. No one’s embarrassed by the tensai.”

“Our teammates would say otherwise.”

Sakuragi sits there, deep in thought, the cogs working in his brain as he watches the rainwater streak the window. The grey sky flashes whitely with lightning, and the rain patters the roof harder. So, if Kiyota is Rukawa’s type, but not Kiyota himself, then he likes someone like Kiyota, huh? Sakuragi hums, placing his chin in the spot between his thumb and forefinger. Does he like monkeys? Does he crush on Akagi? It’d make sense. Akagi’s Haruko’s brother, after all, and so he must have some of the same qualities that Sakuragi’s attracted to. But Akagi isn’t arrogant. Confident, sure, maybe a little loud, but he’s serious, and not at all like—

Rukawa blushes furiously whenever Sakuragi’s jaw drops and he turns to face him.

He inhales, eyes saucers, his eyebrows raised.

“You—you like…”

Rukawa turns to look him in the eye.

“I’ve visited you every day, haven’t I?”

“…But—I thought—we’re… We’re eternal rivals!”

“I know.”

Sakuragi hums, crossing his arms over his chest. He can’t say it doesn’t feel good to be wanted for the very first time. Even if it is by Rukawa. They’ve crossed the bridge of hating one another—if they ever did hate each other—after Nationals. Sakuragi has no disgust or anger for him anymore. If anything, he appreciates him. There’s no way he’d be fueled with such determination if not for Rukawa, and there’s no way he’d perfect his jump shot without studying Rukawa first. And no one else comes to see him besides Yohei, Ayako, Miyagi, and his mom.

Rukawa’s a constant. The morning runs have him waking up earlier than ever.

Why isn’t he disgusted? Why doesn’t he hate him?

Sakuragi supposes he’s grown up.

“You know, no one’s ever liked me before.”

“That you know of.”

Sakuragi scratches the back of his close-cropped, bristly head, guffawing shyly, “Maybe I’m a man’s man! That makes sense. Maybe girls are just too intimidated by my strength and my ability… No wonder they won’t date me. That doesn’t mean I’m unwanted! It just means—”

“Sakuragi.”

“Eh?”

Rukawa leans forward and cups Sakuragi’s cheek. He thumbs at the jut of his cheekbone, observes the black slant of his brows, the wideness of his eyes, the dark lashes on his lower lids that are inexplicably not red.

“Can I…?”

“I—I guess? I haven’t ever—”

It’s enough of a confirmation for him, so he presses his lips to Sakuragi’s without letting him finish his sentence. Sakuragi’s mouth is warm, which he expected. The guy is hot blooded metaphorically and physically. Cutting off his words feels good, since Rukawa doesn’t often speak up to shut the guy up, isn’t like Mitsui or Akagi who will hold him back. He feels his heart race as he tilts his head and presses multiple dry kisses to Sakuragi’s unmoving lips, feeling very satisfied with himself, feeling dizzy with his own boldness. Over and over, he continues to kiss him, Sakuragi unmoving but not pulling away. His lips are chapped, dry, but Rukawa’s are soft enough that they feel cushioned against his.

Then Sakuragi lifts a hand and places it on Rukawa’s shoulder.

Rukawa stills, thinking he’s being rejected, being pushed away. He doesn’t pull back, though, staying in place, sharing air with him, his eyes closed. Sakuragi tastes faintly of soy sauce, and his breath is very warm. He breathes through his mouth, the heat against Rukawa’s chin enticing. He could fall into this. And then, with a nervous sounding little grunt, almost imperceptible, Sakuragi kisses him back. It’s awkward. He peels his lips back and presses his wet teeth to Rukawa’s lips, but it feels nice anyway. They’re both inexperienced, he supposes. Sakuragi then follows it with an open-mouthed kiss, but Rukawa is too nervous to let his tongue into his mouth yet.

Sakuragi ends up licking his upper lip, and Rukawa guesses he kisses the tip of his tongue.

Awkward.

This is Rukawa’s first kiss, too.

Then Sakuragi pulls away. His face is as red as his hair.

“I’m sorry,” Rukawa says, standing up abruptly. His heart is thrumming in his ears in time with the heavy rain pattering the rooftop. He guesses he’ll have to pick up his wet clothes some other time, because he wants nothing more than to leave here, ashamed of himself, bewildered that he actually did it. That his crush on Hanamichi has culminated outside of his own nighttime fantasies and locker room glances, that he will now have to deal with this on the team for the next two years. It’s uncomfortable, immediately, and he wishes he could take it back.

“Wait, where are you going?!” Sakuragi barks, brows knitted.

Rukawa stands stock still, expression cold, but his eyes betray his embarrassment. He can’t look at Sakuragi’s lips.

“I’m not some whore! You can’t use me for a kiss and just leave! I’m still lonely!”

“Eh…?”

Sakuragi grins, showing his white teeth. He knows what it’s like to be rejected.

Like— _really_ knows what it’s like.

There’s no way he’s gonna do that to Rukawa. Even if they are eternal rivals.

He respects him too much.

And maybe he likes him too. Sakuragi isn’t sure—he knows he likes girls, but there’s a new warmth in his chest, and the feeling of being wanted is really nice. The reciprocal kiss, the excitement of having someone like him first. Maybe it’s selfish, or maybe all that time spent on the sand, staring out at the sea has warmed him up to Rukawa subconsciously.

He just can’t believe he thinks of him within the same category as _Kiyota_.

“Stay the night. I’ll show you my inspiratory muscle training exercises and then, in the morning, we can play ball again.”

Rukawa looks outside. The storm’s bad.

“…You’re not disgusted?”

“Rukawa. You’re a total bastard and I’ve been jealous of you since we’ve met. You’re too good with women, too good on the court. But I like—I like that you like _me_! You can have any girl, and you want ME! Though I can’t blame you. I _am_ a tensai.”

“You’re a moron.”

“But that’s your type.”

Rukawa sits back down, his hand covering the 10 on his sweatpants, as if he can keep it clutched up, warm and secret, in his palm.

Sakuragi leans forward, propping his chin on his shoulder, and says, “Kiss me again. You’re a stone-cold fox.”


End file.
